 my laid the quill pen down on the small writing table and picked up the piece of parchment on which she’d scrawled a half dozen lines. She blew gently on the wet ink, then fanned the paper in the air. “You’re sure that’s all you can remember? It isn’t much.”
“O’Donnell will have to be happy with that.” Although Jeb could have used the other Queen Anne chair, he had chosen to sit cross-legged on the floor. His crumpled hat sported a brown-striped feather set at a rakish angle. From her angle the wide brim hid half his face. She rolled up the paper and tied it with a hair ribbon. “What’s this worth to him?” Her brother shrugged. “I don’t know—Pa never said. Let’s take whatever O’Donnell gives us and act disappointed. Maybe he’ll offer more.” “My, what a business man you are!” She tucked the paper into her reticule, then slipped the loop of the small beaded bag over her wrist. “Speaking of business . . . those muskets the major spoke of, did Papa sell them to him?” Jeb hesitated as though loath to confide in her, then shrugged with an air of resignation. “No, he intended to. He agreed to get two hundred muskets together, not all from the same source. That fell through when the banker changed his mind about our loan. Then the accident finished it all . . .” “What do you mean, not from the same source?” “This clerk from the government—I forget his name—told Pa to keep the order a secret. No one was supposed to know we squirreled away that many muskets. Search me why.” “And Papa agreed to haul them to New Mexico this summer?” “Right.” She considered that. “Well, if the government is behind it, it ought to be all right. Papa stood to make a pot of money, I suppose.” “Enough.” “I think you should go ahead on it, Jeb. We need the money. Besides, you agreed—” “No, Pa agreed.” “Same thing.” She narrowed her eyes at him until he shifted his gaze away. “We can’t stop living just because Papa died. We have to think of the future.” He spread his hands and sighed. “Like I told the major, I can’t buy supplies without cash. His muskets wouldn’t fill one freight wagon. What am I supposed to do with the other two? I can’t go that far unless it’s worth it to me.” Amy restrained herself from hitting him alongside the head with her reticule. Could he really be so dense? “Jeb! We’ll just have to find others who want cargo hauled. We still have a few weeks.” A grim thought struck her. “If we’re out of money, how are we going to pay Henri Dubois? He expects a return on the investment he made with Papa last year.” “I guess he can have the Mexican silver we brought back from Santa Fe.” “Show it to me.” She rose from her chair. With a dispirited air, he slowly got to his knees and unlocked the hefty padlock on the brass-bound chest beside the bed. Amy pried up the lid. “Is that everything?” “Every last chalice, platter and filigree necklace we brought back from Santa Fe. I haven’t touched it. Henri should be happy with that.” “He’s expecting currency, though, right? Isn’t that what Papa promised him?” Full of misgivings, she sat on the edge of the bed, marveling at how differently blood relatives could look at things. Especially those who had been separated awhile. She hadn’t much to offer Jeb except trust, and he’d stomped a mud hole in that as though it meant nothing. Now he planned to do the same to Dubois. “He’ll understand. Henri’s a good fellow.” “Well, I hope you will understand.” Amy closed the lid and snapped the padlock closed. “I’m taking charge of this chest. I’ll ask the captain to safeguard it until I go ashore. I won’t stand by and watch you shortchange Papa’s old friend by gambling this away, too.” He gave her an injured look. “Go ahead, if it makes you happy.” He settled his back against the wall and pulled his hat low over his features. After a moment, he peered up at her with a tentative smile. “You know, I really believe I could win at poker today. I feel different—like fortune’s smilin’ on me again. Them cards will naturally fall right if I give ’em another chance. Jackrabbit, he’d treat me fair.” She stared at him without answering. He just didn’t get it! How he reminded her of Papa with his dreams and his cocky belief in himself. Except Papa was smart. Jeb, on the other hand, always needed someone to tell him what to do. Now that Papa was gone, he seemed lost. She prayed for patience. “We cannot rely on luck. It’s a matter of survival.” It came to her suddenly—Mama had said the same thing once, long ago. To Papa. She’d also said, “At least we have one another.” Too late for her parents to make their dreams come true: Papa was dead and buried beside Mama down on Willow Creek. Amy jerked off her bonnet and dropped it on the bed. “No, we have to get our money back some other way. Soon, before we get to New Orleans.” “That’s easy for you to say. Since you been to school, maybe you can tell me how.” A bitter laugh caught in her throat. As if boarding at Miss Ruby Sheffield’s School for Young Women had prepared her for this. It certainly wasn’t skill in filigree wax work that would help her outsmart a cheat. “At least the swindler has two of us to contend with now. I think I know how we can turn the tables on him. We’ll set a trap, and you can spring it. I’ll be there to back you up.” “Right-ho! Then we’ll come back here, and you can teach me how to tat doilies!” “Jeb, you’re all the family I’ve got.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Please don’t shut me out. Let me help.” At least we have one another. His gaze wavered. “I got us into this, and I’ll get us out.” “No. We’re both in trouble. You need me.” He regarded her in silence a few moments, until a sheepish smile twisted his lips. She took it as agreement. “Good. Now, here’s what we do.” She paced the narrow room. “We’ll catch this Jackrabbit Jones in the act of cheating, and we’ll press charges. If he’s dishonest, he’ll go to jail. We’ll get our money back and go on about our business.” He shook his head stubbornly. “If Jackrabbit cheated me—which he didn’t—the manly thing would be to call him out.” He jerked a long-bladed knife from its sheath and waved it in the air. “Knives or pistols—his choice.” She paused in her nervous motion. “No, Jeb. Not that. Just get in the poker game as usual, but this time keep your eyes open for once. I’ll watch.” “That’s your plan?” He snorted in disgust. “What makes you think you can spot a cheater if I can’t?” She sighed, exasperated. How could she make herself useful as long as he saw her as nothing more than a helpless little sister, a mere woman? She kept her tone even. “I’ll talk to the captain—no, hear me out! He can probably tell me what a person should watch for. He’s in authority here, so he’s a necessary part of this. When we’ve got the evidence, he’ll make the arrest.” “I don’t like it. You don’t know Jackrabbit Jones. You think he’d just grin and say, Shucks, you caught me—here’s your money? Not likely.” “But the man must pay for his wickedness.” The ominous feeling that Jeb might have a point prodded her to think of insurance. Her gaze landed on the tiny pistol Jeb had taken from his boot and laid on the writing table. How like him to defy the captain’s rule about carrying firearms. She picked it up. The rounded ivory handle fit snug in her palm with the barrel clearing her knuckle by no more than an inch or so. It was the smallest pistol she’d ever seen. “How quaint this is!” “Put that down!” Jeb glowered at her. “Be careful, now, it’s loaded.” “Can I borrow it?” “Hell, no! What would you do with it?” “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t shoot anyone. I might need it to get someone’s attention, though.” She wondered where she could conceal it on her person. No high-top boots. No pockets. The sleeves on her frock fit snugly from wrist to upper arm. “Give it here.” Jeb held out his hand. The enormity of her plan daunted her, but only for a moment. Only until her father’s image loomed in her mind—the boldest, most courageous man she’d ever hope to know. What would he think of the mess Jeb had gotten them into? He’d never for a minute allow anyone to push him around. And if his own kin was wronged, he’d defend them to the last drop of his blood. But, he wasn’t here. They had to stick up for one another. “Amy? Listen to me. You’re not gettin’ away with this.” “Why not?” She dropped the little pistol down the neck of her bodice. The cool metal slid across her hot skin until it found a resting place in the hollow between her breasts. “I’ll carry it where a gentleman would never find it.” She grinned at his horrified expression. “Dang it, Amy! What am I gonna do with you?” 
He scratched his ribs and opened his portmanteau without enthusiasm. He had let her take the chest of silver—that was fine. Maybe if he indulged her, she’d grant him a little quarter. He sighed, pawing through the wadded clothing. She sure fooled a person with her spindling figure in a shapeless dress and her big eyes peeking out from under her bonnet. Who’d guess she had a core of iron? Barely eighteen and she knew exactly what she wanted. Headstrong. It wouldn’t do no more good to stand in her way than to jump in front of a team of runaway horses. Wishful thinking, that’s what it was, if she believed he’d agreed to take her on as a partner in the freight business. Why was she always planting words in his mouth like that? And save up for a farm? He didn’t know as he wanted to break his back farming again. He’d tried to tell her, but would she listen? Not so’s you’d notice. His only defense was to agree with her, then turn around and do what he wanted. He hadn’t been cheated, and he’d prove it. Nor had he ruined his last chance to haul freight on the Santa Fe Trail, for that matter. He’d rather put his own money in trade goods than haul everybody else’s cargo, anyway. That’s where the money was, after all, though he couldn’t expect Amy to understand. He gave a snort of disgust just thinking about her prissy attitude. After she’d gotten the chest and the porters lined out in the hall, she’d paused in the doorway to tie her bonnet strings. Her stern look would have given credit to a cranky schoolmarm. “Why don’t you change into that nice suit of Papa’s I brought along?” she’d asked. “Remember how he said people treat you like a gentleman if you look the part? Well, I want you to fool everybody, hear?” And without waiting for an answer, she’d hurried away. Fool everybody. Hah! As if there was anything to being a gentleman besides dressing like one. Unless it also meant having pockets stuffed with money. His were nearly empty now, but he’d soon remedy that. He pulled out the blue cloth coat and checkered nankeen trousers. Catching a whiff of Pa’s sweet pipe tobacco brought a whole sortie of memories rushing at him: Pa and him floating down river together on a steamboat, the two of them making the rounds of the French Quarter in New Orleans, visiting Henri Dubois to repay double his investment and to share his spicy Cajun meal. Jeb shucked his homespun trousers and climbed into the suit. The fit was comfortable enough. Groping again in the heavy leather bag, he located his horse-pistol. Never mind the captain’s rules about carrying a sidearm aboard the boat—Jeb might as well be naked without it. If there was trouble, he wanted to be ready. He dug out his flask and poured a measure of black powder down the barrel, followed that with a patch-wrapped lead ball, and crammed the greasy wad home with the ramrod. A percussion cap on the nipple under the hammer completed the loading. He hefted the pistol in his hand, admiring the clean line of the barrel. Something in the way the worn metal gleamed as he scrubbed his sleeve over it, the way the carved wooden handle snugged into his palm and the neat fit of the trigger under his finger satisfied some lusty urge in his belly. It was more than just a pistol. Target practice had made it a deadly weapon. Standing between him and his enemies made it a best friend—a guardian angel. He settled it into its homemade holster and slipped that onto the leather belt around his waist. In front of the mirror, he turned this way and that, adjusting Pa’s narrow-brimmed felt hat and checking the slight bulge under the skirt of the coat where the pistol hung against his hip. Not bad. A handsome devil, if he did say so. Suddenly, a tight feeling in his throat made him swallow. Add a couple of decades or so to the man gazing back at him and he’d be looking at Pa. He blinked and leaned closer. Very much the same, only the eyes lacked something—that veil of sorrow through which Pa viewed the world. The faded light of a defeated spirit was missing, but little else. Jeb shook off the chill that crawled up his spine and spun away from the ghostly reflection. Pa had made a fatal mistake turning his back on brawling riverboat men. But he wasn’t Pa, and he would never make that mistake.
She paused, glancing around. To her relief, the salon was nearly vacant—perhaps the passengers, anticipating arrival at New Orleans, had gone to their rooms to pack. Jeb sat at a table with three other men, intent on his poker game. Except for a quick glance, he paid her no mind. Wandering closer, she made a show of ogling the bright cluster of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling, the gilded frames on the large mirrors, and the red plush-draped walls. She played the travel-weary girl with time on her hands. Arriving eventually at the only occupied gaming table, she paused behind Jeb’s chair to watch the card game in progress. Going to Captain Stott for advice had been a waste of time. He’d made it clear he wouldn’t interfere with Jones without solid evidence the games were dishonest. Somehow, she’d expected more from a man in charge. At least he’d promised to keep her chest of silver safe until she went ashore. She had managed, also, to badger him into describing how a person could recognize a crooked game. The card sharp’s basic methods, he’d confided reluctantly, included a stacked deck, invisible marks or trimmed cards and dealing the sucker a decent hand to bet on so there’d be money in the pot. A blue fog of cigar smoke hovered over the players’ heads. A momentary hush settled, broken only by the soft slap of cards on the table and the ting! of Jeb’s tobacco juice as it hit the brass spittoon. Jackrabbit Jones clenched a black cigar between his long teeth and leaned over his fat belly to shuffle the cards with a ripple and a snap. He sported a silver watch, a showy brass watch-chain, and lots of hair oil. Such vanity! These, plus a pile of money in front of him, seemed enough to snare unwary victims. He puffed on his cigar, then laid it on a tray. A plume of smoke from the strong Louisiana Perique tobacco drifted past Amy’s face, burning her nose. Heavy-lidded eyes shifted toward her, probing, guarded, calculating as a spider. The thin man on the left cut the deck, and Jackrabbit dealt with a flourish. As her brother scooped up his cards, Amy took a peek—two queens. “What the devil!” Jeb complained. “I keep gettin’ the same dang cards!” He seemed to be none the wiser. Amy wondered how he could have missed seeing that his cards had come off the bottom of the deck. How could the other players have missed it, unless they were too busy watching her face for an unconscious clue as to what her brother held in his hand? As if she’d reveal anything by so much as the flicker of an eyelash! Another round of cards flipped out around the table—face up. Jeb gasped when he got another queen. She retreated a few feet from the table and stood with her back to the players, trembling with excitement. She should say something. Now. Call a showdown. Outrage and victory and a crazy feeling of satisfaction made her want to shriek with laughter. Or shout oaths. Hadn’t she tried to tell Jeb? She hadn’t been certain until now. Who else had seen it? If she was the only witness, it might be too soon to make accusations. Behind her, Jeb’s voice rang out in sudden profanity. She whirled. Her brother pointed an accusing finger at Jones. “You miserable slick-fingered cheat!” Clearly visible from where she stood, the gambler’s hand concealed a pistol under the table. The butt of it rested on his thigh with his finger curled around the trigger. The barrel aimed straight at Jeb’s belly. She couldn’t move. The scene had the unreal drama of a stage play, a stark tragedy, moving relentlessly toward its finale. And she stood frozen off-stage, helpless and dumb. No! Jeb, watch out! Reality jolted back, and with it free motion. She reached for her hidden pistol. It seemed a natural part of her nightmare that it settled deeper as she groped for it. With both hands, she ripped the threadbare fabric, closed her fingers around the ivory handle, and fumbled the pistol into position. Aim. Fire! Jackrabbit bucked in his chair as another shot echoed hers. Chairs toppled and thudded to the carpet as two men scrambled away. Jackrabbit’s chair teetered for a moment on two legs, then went down with a crash. Jeb leaned half-crouched over the table, grasping the edge with one hand as though to steady himself. The specter of death shrouded Amy’s mind until she realized her brother stood under his own power, clutching a smoking gun. Relief drained the strength from her legs. Jackrabbit thrashed on the floor, clutching his bloodied right hand and squealing like a pig. The other two men emerged from cover, goggle-eyed and pale. The acrid smell of burnt powder hung in the air. Jeb backed across the room, his head whipping from side to side as he threw glances toward every corner. “Wait, Jeb!” Her heart thumped like a barrel rolling downstairs. “They’ll come for us! Lock us up! What shall we do?” Jeb’s wild-eyed gaze swept back to her. “No! It was all square. The bastard drew first but never got off a shot. We got witnesses.” In his hand, the gun trembled. “I shot him!” Her shallow, rapid breathing didn’t provide enough air. “He was going to kill you, so I shot him.” “Naw, you didn’t. Your shot went high. But you rattled him and gave me the edge. He took my lead. He’ll live, though. If I’d meant to, he’d be dead. Come on, let’s go.” “Wait a minute! Our money!” She ripped off her bonnet and raked Jackrabbit’s pile of bills into it, every scrap and coin. “Hold it right there, ma’am!” One of the poker players reached a shaky hand toward her, but stood as rigid as if his boots were nailed down. “You can’t do that.” Jeb held one of the doors open. “Come on, Amy! Now!” She wadded the fabric around her booty and swiveled away from the table. “Stop!” The thin man waved his pistol. “I’ll shoot, so help me God!” She dashed for the door, chills prickling her vulnerable back. Jeb couldn’t protect her now —his weapon was as empty as hers. The salon stretched ahead of her like a long tunnel. She scrunched her shoulders and ran. As Amy raced toward the doorway, she half-expected a lead ball to bury itself between her shoulder blades. The explosion and stunning impact never came. Behind her, a man cursed. Sounds of pursuit urged her on. Major O’Donnell stood outside the door. He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her behind him. “Jeb, take her to the foredeck and wait for me!” A pistol shot sent a ball whizzing past the major’s head. He flinched, then stepped into the doorway with all the authority of the U.S. Army. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I understand there’s been some trouble.” Jeb tugged at her arm, and she stumbled after him in a daze. Nothing seemed real. The sun burned the stark deck with a cruel and unfamiliar light. It was no longer a safe place from which to watch the unwinding river and shoreline. It had become a place of danger, a battleground. Her brother herded her into the shelter of a stairway, recharging his pistol with a speed and efficiency that amazed her. Was he expecting a showdown? From every direction, deck hands, firemen, and roustabouts converged on the deck, staring at them and questioning one another. Two boat officials arrived and crowded through to the salon. Curious glances drove Amy deeper into the shadowed corner. How could everything have gone so wrong? With this kind of luck, her first tour of New Orleans would be a glimpse of the French Quarter on the way to Police Court. Waiting magnified her fear, and dread settled heavy and cold in her belly. Jeb’s eyes showed a margin of white as he clutched his pistol and watched the passengers and crewmen gather near the salon. The crowd split as though parted by a sword, and Major O’Donnell stepped through. In spite of his frown, his commanding presence eased Amy’s panic. “Put it away, Jeb.” He halted within a foot of the barrel’s tip. “Tell me what happened.” Her brother hesitated, then shoved his weapon into its holster. “I’ve been every way a fool, sir. I didn’t believe Jackrabbit cheated me, and I meant to prove it.” A knot of muscle moved along his jaw. “I should have stuck to playin’ mumbletypeg like a kid.” “You’re saying it wasn’t a fair game?” Jeb’s gaze shifted to Amy as he answered. “I saw him do it, just like she told me—dealin’ from the bottom of the deck.” She read the message in her brother’s eyes: you were right and I was wrong. His shamed-faced look was all the apology she’d ever need. Taking a deep breath, Jeb faced the army officer. “Lordy, he was smooth! It gave me great pleasure to cripple up his dealin’ hand.” The major’s face hardened. “Sounds like you might have done the Union a favor, but you’ve still got a problem.” Amy moved to Jeb’s side; she couldn’t let him take all the blame. “Sir, to begin with, the dealer drew his pistol under the table. I fired first.” Major O’Donnell raised an eyebrow, staring at her as though trying to visualize such a thing, then dropped his gaze to a spot below her neck. She glanced down and discovered a torn collar and gaping bodice. It revealed the top of her chemise and a shocking display of bare flesh. With a cry of dismay, she clutched her bonnet in front of her. Salvaging what remained of her dignity, she lifted her chin to stare him in the eye. The starch went out of his posture. “Jeb, let’s get her to her room.” Her stateroom was one of several built along the outer wall of the salon with the entrances facing the deck. Without a word, she marched toward her refuge, the two men forming a discreet rear escort. The shock of what had happened—the sudden violence and the frenzied escape—had nearly shackled her thoughts. As she hurriedly changed clothes in the privacy of her room, she tried to calm down enough to consider the problem. They had set a trap for Jackrabbit Jones and then had fallen into the pit themselves. She wondered how they were going to climb out again. She buttoned up her second-best frock and secured it at the throat with a silver pin. Judging from the reactions of the passengers and crew—not to mention the poker players—she and Jeb hadn’t made any new friends. Major O’Donnell had given them a chance to explain, but would anyone else listen to their side of it? She dumped the bills from her bonnet onto the bed and gathered them into a pile. The small pistol lay next to it. Where could she hide them? An abrupt knock on the door startled her. Jeb’s voice sounded urgent. “Amy, can you come out here?” “Yes, I’m coming.” She glanced around, desperate for an idea. In the mirror, she caught sight of herself standing in the center of the room, poised like a bird in mid-flight. Her dress was modest once more but the small bustle at the back of her skirt was askew, and her wanton hair tumbled from its combs. “Just a moment!” When she finally opened the door, she found Jeb holding one of the boat’s officers at bay. The official eyed her brother as he might a cornered wolf. “The captain requests that you come to his quarters, Miss. And you as well, sir. He has a few questions to ask. But you’ll have to surrender your pistol.” Jeb’s hand hung near his holster. “You want it, you take it.” She stepped out between them. “And how is Mr. Jones?” One of the bystanders, a minister of the Gospel, puffed out his chest like an indignant turtle dove. “He is alive, thank the Lord for His infinite mercy.” The color in Jeb’s face deepened. “That’s just bully.” “His right hand is badly injured. An uglier mess I have rarely seen, if I may say so.” “Bullier, yet.” Jeb’s eyes narrowed, shifting from one face to another. Amy moved closer to her brother, facing the men. If anyone wanted to persecute him, they’d have to go through her. It was all her fault, anyway. She should never have talked him into confronting Jackrabbit. The major elbowed his way past the minister and stopped before Amy. “If you’ll permit me, I’ll escort you.” The reassurance she found in his steady gaze bolstered her trust. The other men stepped back to let them pass. Apprehension made her mouth as dry as Missouri dust. Her feet felt weighted, and she mounted the stairs as though they led to the gallows. The major’s warm hand under her elbow kept her moving. Captain Stott met her at the top. “This shouldn’t take long—we’ll be docking shortly. Come on up, folks.” In his stateroom, Amy ignored the captain’s invitation to sit down and retreated to the window to peer through the glass. From the tall smokestacks, thick black clouds boiled into the sky. The steamboat’s structure vibrated with speed as it careened past a rocky point. On the bank, two boys sat with their feet in the water, holding fishing rods in their hands. She wished she were baiting fish alongside of them. She turned as several of the boat’s officers and certain distinguished male passengers entered. Some found seats but most remained standing. Major O’Donnell took up a station at the rear, standing rigid as a sentinel. His stance radiated tension. His lips were pressed into a firm line beneath his mustache; his eyes flickered over the crowded room as though he expected more trouble. Amy watched him covertly. Would his influence help or harm them? Jeb slouched next to the captain’s desk, his back to the wall, maintaining an air of injured righteousness. Amy realized it was her brother’s short temper that worried her the most. He might forget he wasn’t roaming Indian country. According to his own wild tales, law and order out there was as scarce as a powdered wig, and he often had to defend himself like a savage. The door opened once more, and Jackrabbit Jones shambled in, flanked by the two other men from the poker game. Someone bounded up to offer his chair, and the gambler slumped his heavy body down without a word. A bulky makeshift bandage on his right hand and wrist created the illusion that he held an infant cradled against his breast. He scanned the room with black eyes glittering in a pasty white face. The captain sat down behind his desk. His calm expression and flat voice gave the impression that the circumstances were nothing out of the ordinary. “Mr. Jones charges the Bakers with robbery and conspiracy to murder.” Murder! The accusation struck Amy like a blow in the stomach. “What are you talking about? He drew on Jeb first! There are witnesses!” The captain frowned. “Are you referring to any witnesses other than yourself and Mr. Baker?” “Of course! Those two men right there—” He shook his head. “Their stories don’t support what you say.” Jeb leaned across the desk, staring at the captain and breathing as if he’d run a mile. “Are you calling her a liar—sir?” “Sit down or you’ll be hauled out of here. Miss Baker, if you will take a seat as well, we’ll try to work this problem out in a mannerly fashion.” From behind, one man seized Jeb’s pistol while another took his knife. Jeb whirled with fists doubled, scowling at each man in turn. At the point of a gun, he lowered himself slowly into his chair, rigid and watchful. His eyes held a dangerous glint. Someone pushed a chair toward Amy, and she perched on it, struggling to regain her poise. She hadn’t intended for her outburst to goad Jeb closer to the edge. As she clasped her hands tightly in her lap to stop the shaking, she searched her mind for a defense. Across the room, Major O’Donnell’s expression looked grim as he met her gaze. His gray eyes reminded her of lightning-shot storm clouds on a sultry afternoon. The captain continued in a monotone voice. “Did anyone else see Mr. Jones draw his pistol first? No one?” She glared at Jackrabbit. “He dealt from the bottom of the deck—I saw him.” The gambler didn’t so much as glance at her. “Captain, there’s the matter of the robbery. That girl looted the table before she left.” Amy opened her mouth to protest, then stopped to think. If it was her word against theirs, the less said the better. The captain’s expression held little sympathy. “Where is it?” She held his gaze steadily. “The only money I have is rightfully mine.” Captain Stott sighed heavily, then tugged a watch out of his pocket to check the time. One of his men spoke up. “I checked both their rooms. No money in either place. But I did find her pocket pistol.” “Search them!” demanded Jackrabbit, baring his long teeth. “One of them must have it.” Amy’s stomach clenched, and she thought she might be sick. The captain took out a large handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Jeb, do you have the money on you?” Her brother leaped to his feet and stared around the room. “See for yourself!” He ripped off Papa’s coat and threw it at Jackrabbit. The cravat and shirt followed. Jeb broke the stunned silence in the room by bouncing his boot off the gambler’s shoulder and eliciting a yelp. He was tugging at his other boot when two men grabbed him. “Easy, Jeb!” Major O’Donnell moved toward the grappling men. “Let him go. It’s plain he can’t have more than a few coins on him.” The captain’s mouth twisted with contempt. “Get that desperado out of here and put him in irons.” Amy’s mind went numb as two robust men dragged her brother, cursing and thrashing, out the door. Jackrabbit rose and kicked Jeb’s clothing aside. He raised his arm and pointed at Amy. “She’s got it, then. There’s no where else it could be.” All eyes shifted in her direction. Blood rushed in her ears as she slowly stood up and held her arms out to the side. “Which one of you gentlemen will search me and find out?”
Cuddling his wounded hand, Jones stalked her. A sheen of perspiration highlighted his swarthy face; his eyes glittered, small and mean. Tyler edged through the stupefied gathering, alarm adding urgency to his maneuver. Surely the man wouldn’t assault a woman in front of witnesses! Jones closed on her like a predator, snatched her bonnet strings and yanked the cap from her head. Waves of blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders—no bills or hidden loot, just waves of silky gold. She showed her teeth. “Get him away from me!” As the gambler reached for her again, she swiped at his face, her fingers curved like claws, and left a row of bloody scratches across his cheek. Jones snarled and seized her wrist with his awkward left hand. “Give me your bag!” Tyler yanked his sword from its metal scabbard as he closed in. He gripped Jones’ shoulder, spun him around, and held the quivering blade close to the man’s face. For a frozen moment, Tyler stared into the bugging eyes and fought the reflex to draw blood. The stifling air had turned rank in close quarters, taking the joy out of breathing. The fat scoundrel inhaled more than his share just being alive. Tyler struggled to maintain an icy control over his rage. “If you touch her again, it’ll be the last thing you do.” The smaller man shrank back as the edge of the sword touched his neck. A muscle twitched near his eye. “All right. Don’t get jumpy.” The captain advanced around his desk. “Jones, you’re out of order. Back off or the major will run you through. And he’d be well within his rights to do so.” He turned to his officers. “We’ll keep Baker secured until we tie up at New Orleans. Then we’ll hand him and the young lady over to the jurisdiction of this parish.” Tyler blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth to challenge the decision, then stopped himself. His army training forbade him to interfere with a figure of authority, especially before an audience. When the rabbit-toothed gambler sidled from under his sword and retreated toward the door, Tyler pronounced a silent curse on him and replaced his weapon in its scabbard. Jones paused in the doorway, looking back. “That little bandit’s going to be sorry.” With a final menacing scowl in Amy’s direction, he disappeared. Amy swayed on her feet, clutching the back of her chair. Tyler put out a hand to steady her. The flesh of her arm felt cool under his fingers. “Are you all right, Miss?” “I think so . . .” She sank trembling into the chair. “Merciful heaven, what have I done? It’s all my fault.” The anguish in her voice twisted something deep inside him. He peered into her pale face, noting the tracery of bluish veins at the temples, the lack of color in her lips. “Are you feeling faint? Wait here.” When he brought a glass of water from the sideboard, he found her staring blankly out the window, her fingers worrying the tassels on her small beaded bag. She roused herself enough to accept the drink and murmur a thank you. After taking a sip, she glanced up and her blue eyes met his. Cornflower blue. Hair the color of ripe wheat in the sun. For a long moment, he stood spellbound, aware of the grace and beauty the old-fashioned clothing failed to hide. Within her, he sensed inherent goodness; her deeds lacked the black mark of sin. Her vulnerability and innocence touched his heart, disturbing its rhythm. He suddenly and unreasonably wanted her for his own, to safeguard and protect. To carry her off to a secluded spot and make love to her until the harsh realities of life had shrunk to nothing. The realization left him momentarily defenseless. He glanced out the window, deliberately breaking contact. “We’re almost there.” When she dropped her gaze, he began to breathe again. “Then you’ll be wanting this.” She dug in her reticule, withdrew a rolled parchment tied with a ribbon, and handed it to him. “What is it?” “The information you wanted from my brother. It’s all he could remember.” He slipped off the ribbon, unrolled the paper, and glanced at the precise lettering—all of one short paragraph. His heart sank. He’d given up hope of getting the maps Royal Baker had promised, the layouts of Santa Fe and the military fortifications. But the names of the revolutionary leaders he needed to contact was crucial. “This is all? No names?” “It’s a bit meager, I know—” “Meager? That hardly describes it!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “There’s nothing here. What I need—” Between her clenched fists, the loop on her reticule snapped with a twang. She blinked at the broken cord and caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tyler cursed himself for his tactlessness. On top of everything else, she didn’t need this. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.” He folded the paper and slipped it into the front of his shirt, trying to keep his disappointment from showing. “Please don’t blame Jeb too much. He’s had a hard time since our father died.” She had blue eyes a man could drown in. Gazing into them, he felt an internal tug and cautioned himself against giving in to the feelings few soldiers could afford. “I understand. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s getting a fair shake.” “You know he’s not.” He tore his gaze away and faced the window, hands on hips, staring at the shifting landscape. He had to get out of her sight before he made a promise he couldn’t keep. Important obligations waited for him in New Orleans. Serving as a liaison between the president of his country and the commander of another, he had no business getting involved in someone else’s problems. He had to keep his mind focused! With firm resolution, he turned toward her, ready to offer his regrets and make his departure, then saw the bruised look in her eyes. Oh, hell! “Don’t worry,” he heard himself say. “I’ll do everything I can to get you out of this.” |
yler O’Donnell cursed under his breath. Instead of allowing the captain to handle the situation, the Baker girl had called her accuser’s bluff. She might as well have dropped an ember in the tinder box. Now she stood wide-eyed and pale before them, challenging every man in the room with her defiance. In the uncertain silence, Tyler’s nerves tightened. What had she gotten herself into?